


There Is Nothing Left To Lose

by MsJones



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Erotica, F/M, One Shot, Personal Tragedy, Romance, Season 8, Slightly Funny, what actually happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-09 17:49:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19480951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsJones/pseuds/MsJones
Summary: Queen Cersei Lannister makes some alliances, and faces up to reality.





	There Is Nothing Left To Lose

**Author's Note:**

> Based upon the Euron/Cersei interactions in Season 8, Episode 1, with my own spin on the actual dialogue, and a little extra in between… ;) I actually like Euron as the dumbass pirate, and think he’s kinda cute, so I admired Cersei for her power play, but felt a little sorry for her when it was revealed there was a deleted scene where she did actually miscarry. She pretends not to care, but… y’know. :( Sorry for the unoriginal title. :P
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own or profit from Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire or any relevant characters, which remain the property of George R.R. Martin/HBO.

Fighting back tears, Cersei sat in her chambers, on the edge of her bed. It had been a week since she had lost the baby, the last piece of Jaime she had left. Now he was gone, had ridden up North to fight in some nonsense battle alongside the traitorous Northmen, their bastard leader, Jon Snow, and his whore Daenerys. Knowing she was likely never to see her twin again was more than she could bear. The anger, stress and grief might have caused her to go into a tragically early birth. A few days ago, she had bled and bled, more than the typical moon blood, and it was then she knew; all was lost. She had not even told Qyburn, dear, faithful Qyburn – she couldn’t bring herself to confirm the details of her loss with him. It was so… final.

She strolled over to the table, grabbed a wine glass that was set there, alongside a decanter, which had gone untouched since she realised… Trying to put the thought from her mind, she poured herself a generous glass.

No sooner had the fine Dornish vintage touched her lips, came a tap at the door.

“Your Grace,” came the voice of her ever-devoted Hand Qyburn. “Euron Greyjoy has arrived with the Golden Company and Captain Harry Strickland in tow.”

Gasping, Cersei quickly tipped the wine back into the glass carafe, and replaced the goblet upon the table where it had been. She quickly checked her looking-glass, and was relieved to find her eyes weren’t as puffy as she thought they were.

“Thank you, Qyburn,” she replied, in a strained, brittle voice. _Hold yourself together,_ she told herself, _it will not do to cry in front of these men…_ She wished she could take another mouthful of sweet Dornish courage, but she had to keep up her pretence, even to her closest allies. She must not show weakness. Steeling herself, managing a half-smile, she opened the door to her dutiful Hand, accompanied by the tall, shadowy armoured figure, who had been her protector since her walk of atonement, a half year ago now.

“Ser Gregor will accompany you to the Throne Room,” Qyburn reassured his Queen. Despite her stoic appearance, regal silver chain across her chest, a simple matching coronet, and a black, high-necked, long-sleeved floor-length dress, could he see her suppressed rage and sadness?

“Thank you.”

During their short journey to the Throne Room, Cersei pondered her predicament. Should she confide in her Hand about… what had happened (she could still barely even think of it), her fears for Jaime, even though she hated him at this particular moment in time, her angst over the so-called Dragon Queen… She remembered the old crone’s words from her childhood…. _Queen you shall be, until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all you hold dear…_

In the cavernous room, the largest in the Red Keep, flanked by a pair of high ranking Queensguards, stood two men, one tall, gangly stranger in shiny gilded armour, with thick, greasy blond hair, next to the slightly shorter self-proclaimed King of the Iron Islands, Euron Greyjoy, his scruffy overcoat trailing the ground, leather trousers and a shabby open-necked shirt which proudly showed off his chest. She gave a pleasant nod to the stranger she knew to be Harry Strickland, captain of the Golden Company, a battalion of sell-swords. Organised, but sell-swords nonetheless.

“Your Grace,” Strickland drawled, not unpleasantly.

“My Queen,” piped up the dishevelled Crow’s Eye, captain of the Iron Fleet.

“My lords,” Cersei acknowledged, as she ascended the few steps to the Iron Throne, and settled on the cold uncomfortable chair. She took a breath. “Let us begin. Captain Strickland, I have procured the services of the Golden Company to protect my kingdom. Twenty-thousand men, was it?”

Strickland inclined his head ‘yes,’ whilst Euron chipped in, “give or take.”

Noting Cersei’s slight confusion, Strickland explained “A few died in transit,” whilst glaring slightly at Euron.

“What?” Euron said indignantly, shrugging and spreading his arms. “They… they cheated at dice,” he justified, a tone of disgust in his voice. “Hmm… Or maybe I cheated,” he continued, more to himself than the queen before him. He glanced confidently back up at Cersei. “They weren’t good fighters, you won’t miss them.”

Stifling a sigh, aware that Euron had been overreacting as usual, killing anyone who should cross him in the slightest, Cersei went on. “Horses?” she asked, trying desperately to mask her irritation. It would hardly do to waste a good man’s life, especially when it came to protecting the realm from its enemies, living or dead.

“Two-thousand, Your Grace,” imparted Strickland.

Cersei nodded, impressed by this news. “Elephants?” she asked, her hopes rising.

A few seconds of silence; Euron shuffled uncomfortably and Strickland drew a breath. “None, Your Grace.”

Anger flashed across Cersei’s face, and she noticed Euron flinch. “That’s disappointing,” she admitted, behind clenched teeth. “I was told the Golden Company had elephants.” A muscle twitched in her left cheek.

Strickland, however, held firm as he explained his reasoning: “While they are excellent beasts indeed, they do not travel well.”

It was all Cersei could do to not roll her eyes in frustration, disgust, anger… Euron’s presence with his gormless, yet strangely attractive, smirk, did not help. “In any case, Captain Strickland, you are most welcome in the city of King’s Landing.”

Strickland made a graceful bow. “Thank you, Your Grace,” he said pleasantly. “We look forward to serving you well.” He turned and strolled out of the throne room.

Euron, however, stayed where he was, and watched Strickland leave, jealousy in his eyes. He turned back to Cersei. “What about me?” he growled. “Am I most welcome in King’s Landing?” He stared back at her hopefully, awaiting her royal approval.

“You are a true friend to the realm,” Cersei continued formally, “and an honoured guest, of course.” She tried to keep the malice and disgust out of her voice.

Euron smiled devilishly. “So… as a true friend, and an honoured guest,” he echoed, stepping towards the throne, “I was hoping we could…” His eyes were drawn to the entrance to Her Majesty’s quarters. “Talk in private?” He continued to stalk towards Cersei, and The Mountain made his move to stop him. In respect – no, fear, Cersei noticed – he halted his progress on the bottom step.

“I told you,” Cersei scolded, “you will receive any reward after the war.”

“Wars sometimes last years,” Euron countered, a little exasperated. He was desperate to spend some time alone with the Queen, not because she was the Queen. Not _just_ because of that. He thought she was beautiful – genuinely beautiful, and deserved more than that fat oaf Robert Baratheon, and her foolish brother. He would also enjoy proving his captive niece wrong, when he fulfilled his promised to ‘fuck the Queen.’ He leered at Cersei, who stared back, eyes as steely as the chair she sat upon.

“If you want a whore, you can buy one,” she retorted acidly, rising from her seat. “If you want a Queen… earn her.” She made to stalk away, her guards and Qyburn making to follow her out.

“But how?” Euron asked. “I’ve given you justice, an army… the Iron Fleet.” He sniffed. “Yet you return no affection for me.”

Clearly not impressed, Cersei continued on her way back to her quarters.

Undeterred, Euron continued. “My heart is breaking,” he begged, his voice cracking a little, clutching at his chest, as if it genuinely pained him.

Cersei turned on her heel to face Euron. “Your insolence knows no bounds,” she sighed. “I have executed men for less.” She shook her head slowly. “Do you wish for death that badly?”

Euron gave a tiny smirk, his chest pain suddenly, miraculously, alleviated. “It’s not death I want,” he purred, looking back at the queen with a soft, loving gaze.

Cersei returned his look of adoration with a hard stare of contempt, and gave a nod to Qyburn, signalling for him, Ser Gregor and the remaining guards to stand down before continuing to her chambers. On reaching the door, she turned abruptly back to Euron. “Well?” she asked bluntly. “Are you coming, or not?”

Euron’s sullen expression turned to a filthy, expectant grin. He chuckled to himself and licked his lips, dutifully following the queen, giving the unyielding guard, The Mountain, a look of triumph as he breezed past.

*

Euron wandered into the Queen’s quarters to find her seated at a small wooden table, a large glass of wine in front of her, along with the rest of the jug, and a second empty wine glass. He smiled, and took a seat opposite Cersei, without being invited. Amused by his over-familiarity, Cersei finally smiled a genuine smile, for the first time in weeks.

“So, Euron,” she sighed, pouring him a glass of wine, about half the amount she had for herself, “what is it that you were so desperate to discuss?”

Euron smiled and eyed Cersei keenly, her tight-fitting dress showing her beautiful form. “I wasn’t planning on doing much talking,” he confessed, his hand reaching across the rough wooden table, looking to brush her fingers. The Queen evaded his touch by grabbing her glass, and taking a long draught.

Slyly, Euron moved his chair a little bit closer to Cersei, and brushed his knee against hers, and stroked the back of her leg with his foot. Pretending not to notice, Cersei took yet another sip of wine, amused by Euron’s not-so-subtle flirting. Jaime never played games like this; he was always so direct, and took what he wanted, a trick Cersei had used to seduce Lancel, to keep him quiet and on her side. She wasn’t sure she liked Euron’s cheeky, touchy-feely approach. She took a breath and shifted in her seat to face him.

“The Iron Fleet,” she said, as formally as she could. “What purpose will they serve in the wars to come?”

Euron grinned, a wicked look in his eyes. Blue, like the fourteen oceans he was reported to have sailed, Cersei noticed. “Purpose?” he answered, amused. “Our only purpose is to serve you, and protect you, my Queen.” He reached up to stroke her face, his callused fingertips touching her soft, ageing skin.

Cersei did not flinch, but reached up and placed her hand on Euron’s wrist, guiding his hand gently away from her. Euron got the message and rested his hand on the table, drumming his fingers, seemingly impatiently.

“With what means do you intend to defend the city?” Cersei probed further, watching as Euron picked his glass back up, swilling the liquid around and staring seemingly into space, as if contemplating the question. His eyes craftily gazed towards the archway to Cersei’s bedchamber, and he grinned.

“Your good man Caybourne…”

“Qyburn,” Cersei corrected him, in a bored tone. Her eyes stung from the effort of trying not to roll them in exasperation.

“Qwy-burn,” Euron repeated, with a slight chuckle, amusing himself with his deliberate mispronunciations of the man’s name. “He has ordered a Scorpion to be installed on each of our ships. The better to destroy your enemies.” Making yet another move, he placed his wine glass back down and touched Cersei’s hand with a tenderness that didn’t become him, yet she found oddly arousing. She looked back at him, and her lips formed into something of a smile. She was beginning to warm to his ‘charms’, his biting, sarcastic sense of humour, that dirty smile, and those eyes… almost hypnotic. With Jaime gone and Lancel dead, (unfortunate collateral in the blast she had orchestrated to rid King’s Landing of the infernal Faith Militant, along with those damned Tyrells, conspiring behind her back) Euron seemed like her only ally.

Euron noticed her starry-eyed gaze, as she remembered those green flames consuming her enemies. He grinned and raised his eyebrows. “What are you thinking about?” he asked, leaning on the table, gazing back at the queen.

“My enemies,” Cersei said, dreamily, “and killing them.”

Euron could barely contain himself. “I will gladly help you eradicate the scum who would threaten your freedom,” he said passionately, grabbing Cersei’s wrists, “if you would let me…”

Cersei noticed the man was breathing heavily through clenched teeth, and she dared to drop her gaze. She could tell he was aroused. In her youth, a friend had told her that men of the Iron Islands, in place of a cock, had a large tentacle-like protrusion, suckers and all, that moved inside you as if it had a mind of its own. And when they came, they would spurt forth a viscous black ink, marking the woman as their own. Cersei felt disgusted and excited just imagining the feeling as he slid inside her. She looked back up, doubting it was really true, and saw a crazy glint in those dark blue eyes.

“Your Grace,” Euron panted, drawing himself further forward. “I must have you. Ever since we first met, I have wanted you for my own.” He knelt at Cersei’s feet. “Please, let me be yours.” He softly squeezed the Queen’s fingers between his own.

Cersei smiled, and stood up herself, urging Euron to rise. She broke from his loose grip, pulled him close, and pressed her lips firmly, passionately to his. As he gratefully returned her affection, his hands fumbled from her waist, up her back, to the nape of her neck, trying desperately to unfasten her dress.

Cersei pulled away from Euron’s kiss; a little reluctantly – he was a good kisser, his lips almost as gentle as Jaime’s, his beard surprisingly soft against her cheeks. “Patience, my lord,” she whispered, as he began to run his fingers through her short blonde hair – it was beginning to get longer, at last. He slipped off her coronet and placed it gently on the table beside them. He stared back at the Queen and grinned his dangerous grin.

Cersei was tempted to lean in for more of his arousing kiss, but held back. She felt like she was betraying Jaime. But then, he had betrayed her, by leaving her, pregnant and alone. She took Euron by the hand, and led him to her bedchamber.

Euron grinned, dutifully following Cersei, shrugging off his jacket as he went, dropping it on the Queen’s smooth stone floor. He was desperate to escape the confines of his tight leather trousers; Cersei’s beauty had affected him more than any other woman he cared to remember. By the Drowned God, it was so uncomfortable. He smiled back at Cersei, who finally allowed him to grope at her clothing, unfastening her dress, allowing it to slip to the floor, the metal and chains ringing on the floor with a soft clink. At last, he admired her curves, and allowed himself to touch her breasts.

Still tender from the lingering symptoms of her former pregnancy, her body’s way of tormenting her, Cersei sucked in her breath. Euron’s callused fingertips felt strange against them. She was used to soft touches, from wretched, gentle Lancel, Gods rest his soul, and... Jaime. _Curse him,_ she thought, reaching for Euron’s breeches, impatiently unfastening them, and tugging them down. She wished Jaime could see her now, about to be fucked by one of his greatest rivals, who was kicking off his boots, reaching down to unbuckle them, violently freeing himself of them, as she clawed at his shirt, letting it drop onto the damask bedsheets, leaving the desperate sailor in just his undershirt and smallclothes, struggling with his second boot. It was somewhat amusing to her, and she took the opportunity to relieve herself of her own footwear, remaining underclothes, and slip demurely beneath the sheets.

Having finally released his feet from the confines of his shoes, Euron turned his attention back to the Queen, kneeling up on the bed next to her, watching her, wondering what she was doing under those covers. “It’s hot in here,” he quipped, as he slipped his undershirt off over his head, flinging it upon the ground. He ogled Cersei, naked under the covers. “Come, beautiful, let me look upon you.”

Smiling slightly, Cersei peeled back the covers and settled in Euron’s arms. He was unusually sweet, and returned his lips to hers. _Gods,_ she thought, feeling things she thought she would never experience again. The man, who had desperately fought for her love, by risking his life to bring her the head of the bitch Ellaria Sand, still rotting away in the dungeon as far as Cersei was aware, who had killed her beloved Myrcella for nothing more than being a Lannister. He had brought her a navy, the greatest navy in the Seven Kingdoms. He was terribly arrogant and beyond impertinent, but he was funny, and oddly handsome. She felt dirty, finding a Greyjoy, of all the Houses, sexually appealing. It seemed, though, that it was him, and him alone, still willing to defend her. The Starks had slaughtered House Bolton, the Tyrells were gone, having withdrawn their support for the Crown, the Martells had declared for the self-styled Dragon Queen who had already killed many of the Crown’s supporters… Now there was nothing left to lose. She reached for the burgeoning bulge in Euron’s undershorts.

“So,” she purred. “Is it true what they say about the men of the Iron Islands?”

Euron raised an eyebrow. “What do the mainlanders say of us?” he asked curiously, his lips skimming Cersei’s jaw, sliding down to her elegant neck, nipping slightly at her soft skin.

Cersei tried, and failed, to hold back a girlish giggle. She was thinking about how absurd the ‘tentacles for man-parts’ rumour she had learned as a teenager actually was, and how Euron’s soft facial hair tickled her skin. As his tongue worked its strange magic on her neck, he reached down, his rough fingers slipping down between her legs. The feeling was irresistible, nobody, not even Jaime, had made her feel like this. _Gods,_ she had to know. She tugged at his smallclothes, and peeked under the covers. The sight elicited a gasp even from her wide experience. He was _very_ well endowed. No sentient tentacles, slimy suckers, and glands threatening to leak staining ink all over her thighs, just a normal appendage, a little bigger than usual. Suddenly, she wanted it. She _craved_ it.

Her lips found his ear as he continued to fondle her, kiss her neck. “Take me,” she husked to him. “I need you.”

Euron grinned back at her. “You like what you see, Your Grace?” he asked, gently, slowly withdrawing his two fingers from her. Kneeling astride her, he teased himself on Cersei’s wet inner thighs, glancing at her frustrated expression with a cheeky grin.

Cersei threw her arms around Euron’s neck and pulled him to her, their lips clashing, almost violently. After indulging in the kiss for a few seconds, Euron’s teeth caught Cersei’s bottom lip, not hard enough to be painful, but long enough for her to squirm underneath him. He knelt astride her legs, putting his hands upon her waist. “On your knees,” he commanded, firmly, but gently pulling Cersei’s body to him.

Cersei dug her nails into the man’s shoulders, feeling his tongue snake across her left cheek, lips tickling her chin. “I am a queen,” she demanded, scratching his back, though not spitefully. “You will treat me with respect.”

Euron grinned his infuriating grin back at her. “You told me you wanted – no, _needed_ me,” he retorted. “You are in no position to use your status.” He reached down and teased Cersei with his finger, making her moan, clench her jaw and suck in her breath. “You’re in way too deep with me now.”

Dutifully, Cersei knelt on the bed, in front of Euron, who crawled behind her, giving her curvy little bottom a playful smack. “Good girl,” he whispered into her ear.

Cersei felt a chill rush through her body. She no longer felt any disgust or contempt for the man who was now positioned right behind her, easing her chest into the feather mattress, his fingers working their magic between her legs. Eventually, she felt him slip inside her, eliciting a moan of ecstasy from deep within her soul.

“You like that?” Euron asked, rutting hard against her, holding her firmly in place with his strong hands, listening to Cersei’s cries of pleasure. “Your Grace?” he corrected himself.

The Queen panted, a hot mess under Euron’s commanding touch and strong thrusts. He filled her up entirely, a delicious friction against a sweet spot inside her, whilst his fingers – Gods, those _fingers_ – slipped around, doubling the pleasure. _Mother have mercy,_ she thought to herself, _this is so damned good!_

Cersei was about to reach the edge of an orgasm when all of a sudden, Euron slipped himself out of her, and withdrew his fingers, cheekily wiping them on her outer thighs. Sighing with disappointment, she glanced over her shoulder. “Have you come?” she asked, trying to keep the frustration out of her voice.

Euron shook his head, reclining onto the mattress. “Not yet,” he answered her. “I just wanna… change it up a bit.” He gave her arse another quick smack. “Come here and get on top of me,” he asked sweetly. “I… I need to look upon you, my love.” He smiled.

Flattered, Cersei crawled over to face Euron, kneeling over his hips. One of his hands stroked her right thigh lovingly, the other guided himself into her again, groaning as Cersei, expertly, he noticed, bucked against him, angling herself in such a way, that the tip of his cock brushed against something soft inside of her. “You’re breathtaking,” he gasped, biting his lip as he enjoyed the pleasure.

Cersei smiled a sexy half smile, gazing down at Euron. It was all she could do as she took her pleasure from him. Vile and arrogant he may be, but he knew a woman’s body ten times better than her first husband, even for all the whores he had been with during their marriage.

Euron groaned in pleasure himself. “That’s right, Your Grace,” he sighed. “I can’t get enough of your beauty… you have the loveliest tits I’ve ever seen… God you’re so wet and tight… you know exactly how to please a man…” Panting, he reached to caress her bottom, pulling her closer to him, if that was at all possible. “I love your arse… so perfect,” he went on breathlessly.

“I thought you weren’t planning on talking much,” Cersei retorted in a breathy voice, leaning down to kiss Euron, if only to silence him. Though his harsh Pyke (or was it Great Wyk?) accent was somewhat alluring, if she were being honest. He wouldn’t even have to touch her; she could have him whisper dirty suggestions in her ear as she gave herself pleasure. Suddenly, she gasped, feeling an errant finger slide in where… it really shouldn’t. But it felt good, especially when he slowly wriggled it inside her. She rode him hard to show her appreciation.

“You like that?” Euron croaked, feeling himself get closer and closer to completion. “I bet you do, you filthy whore?” He steeled himself for a slap in the face, which he thoroughly deserved, or even a knife across the throat. In any case, it had been worth it. Neither came, and he dared to make eye contact with Cersei to see why, and if she was planning anything. She had her head thrown back, hands over her breasts, lips parted as she continued to moan. He slapped her arse with his free hand, eliciting loud sighs from her. He hoped the whole damn city would hear. He willed the Drowned God to let her precious brother know what was happening to his sister who was, if rumours were to be believed, Jaime’s one and only conquest. _If you could see me now, Golden Boy,_ he thought. This notion drove him closer and closer to the edge, and he came, harder than he’d done in months. Yet Cersei kept on riding him, as if she were trying to stay atop a wild horse. Eventually, she whimpered, slowed down, and slumped down on top of him, snuggling her head under his chin, his chest hairs tickling her cheek.

Suddenly feeling a little embarrassed over having called her a ‘whore’ in the heat of passion, Euron popped his finger gently out of Cersei’s tight butthole, stroked her shoulder tenderly, and kissed the top of her head. Surreptitiously, he wiped his finger on the sheets, and cradled the queen in his arms as she relaxed. “Sweet dreams, Your Grace,” he whispered, closing his eyes.

*

Cersei awoke some time later, relaxed and sated, feeling better than she had done in weeks. The wave of self-disgust she was expecting didn’t come, even when she glanced at her suitor, still asleep, snoring slightly. He was adorable when he was sleeping, she noticed. She reached up to stroke his face affectionately, and felt him squeeze her tighter. She wanted to wake him up for another round (she looked down, noticing he was still big, even in his soft state), but couldn’t bring herself to disturb him. Snuggling back down, she watched his chest rise and fall. After a few moments, he inhaled deeply and sighed, opening his eyes.

“Morning,” he croaked, giving his queen a soft kiss on the forehead. _Gods, his sleepy voice is so dreamy_ , Cersei thought. She glanced out of the window and smiled.

“It’s heading towards nightfall,” she purred, correcting him, fingertips running through his hair. It had grown a little since they had first met, and she noticed his curls coming through. _So cute,_ she thought.

“Good,” Euron grinned, reaching down to his crotch. “Want to go for Round Two?”

Tempted, but resolute – after all she had a kingdom to run – Cersei shook her head and rose from her bed. She walked over to her oak armoire and grabbed a silk dressing gown to hide her nakedness. As she tied the cord at her waist, she sighed, reality hitting her. Euron’s nude form caught her eye, and she gazed at him for as long as she dared without him noticing, wanting to preserve the memory forever. Despite the amazing lovemaking session they had just experienced together, she was still disgruntled. All that money, all those gold dragons paid to the Golden Company, and they couldn’t come up with their full promise. Sighing, she wandered out of her bedchamber, back towards the wine, picking up her half-finished glass, as Euron slipped on his undershirt and wriggled his trousers back on.

“I really wanted those elephants,” she lamented, taking a large sip of wine, sitting at her table.

“So,” Euron asked huskily, “how do I compare to the Fat King?”

Trying not to laugh, or even smile, Cersei steeled herself. “You are insulting my late husband,” she reprimanded, as Euron approached her from behind, hands on her shoulders, smooching her neck.

“Are you offended?” he whispered with a grin.

Cersei did not answer, instead taking a long draught of her wine, recalling her and Robert’s nuptials, where he had flopped drunkenly down on top of her as she was trying to sleep and had called her the wrong name… _Lyanna._ Her heart had broken in that one moment, a half-day into their marriage. She was hardly about to admit _that_ to Euron, or anyone.

“What about the Kingslayer?” Euron probed further, curious, enjoying baiting the Queen.

Still holding her wine glass, her grip on it tightening, she bit her lip. He had touched a nerve. “You really enjoy risking your neck, don’t you?” she asked, almost cheerfully.

Euron grinned brightly and shrugged. “Life is boring,” he replied nonchalantly.

Cersei gazed back at the smug Iron Islander, recalling what had passed upon her feather mattress. She could still feel it, the harshness of his thrusts, how much pleasure she felt with him inside her, what he did with his two good hands. “You’re not boring,” she conceded, “I’ll give you that.”

Euron approached her with a chuckle. He touched her shoulder affectionately, gazing down at her adoringly. Cersei pulled her robe closer to her, knowing that he was trying to sneak a look at her nakedness.

“Do I please the Queen?” Euron asked tenderly.

Still hiding her inner enjoyment behind her cold, rigid façade, well-rehearsed over the years of abuse from Robert, Cersei glared back at Euron. “You may be the most arrogant man I have ever met,” she admonished, before softening her gaze slightly. She pressed her lips together, and took yet another mouthful of wine, still recalling Euron’s gentle touch. “I like that,” she finally admitted.

Euron placed a hand on Cersei’s stomach. She stiffened, but tried not to flinch. His lips brushed her cheek. “I’m going to put a prince in your belly,” he murmured, caressing her gently, cradling her from behind.

Cersei swallowed a lump in her throat. Euron was an attentive, exciting, even unselfish lover, but he could be really insensitive. She wasn’t about to tell him what had happened; he, of all people, did not need to know what she had been through. No-one did. She wanted to stand up and shatter the wine glass over his head, spit on him and tell him to get the seven hells out of her city, and take his damned Iron Fleet with him to pillage and rape some other idiot women, but, no. She couldn’t risk losing a single line of defence. Instead, she calmly drained her glass, which still contained a fair amount of liquid, placed it gently on the table, and glanced up at Euron, trying to appear fond of him. She was, but he had placed a toe on a very, very fragile line.

“That’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me,” she sighed with a light melancholy. “Do you realise how depressing that is?” She reached for the wine decanter and poured herself another glass, almost to the brim. “Now I want to be left alone,” she concluded, turning her attention to the full glass. A little of the deep red liquid spilled onto the table, but she was beyond caring.

With a gentle laugh, Euron patted Cersei tenderly on the shoulder. “I understand,” he said, with a sympathetic air. He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “We’ll talk again later,” he whispered, before respectfully withdrawing to his own quarters.

Hearing the door close at last, Cersei sighed. She had feelings for Euron, but not enough to make a child with him. All of that had passed from her, literally, metaphorically, emotionally… every which way she could think of. She considered asking Qyburn for moon tea, but that would draw suspicion. He ‘knew’ she was already carrying a child. Perhaps, if the worst happened, and Euron made good his promise (Cersei knew she would have to continue sleeping with him to keep his allegiance), she could pass it off as Jaime’s trueborn son; she didn’t care if, when, and how people knew what had passed between her and her brother for so very long. She felt strange for actually enjoying herself with Euron, although she would never, ever admit it to anyone, not in the least the man himself, his ego was already big enough for her, but interestingly, she felt no disgust or even guilt, only remorse for her poor, dead child.

Finishing her wine, she retired to her bedchamber with a heavy head, and a heavy heart.


End file.
